Church for sale

Large  pseudo -marble church  with fake pews and psalter.
Politically  incorrect   and impassible
Players  suffered daily,weekly and yearly.
Free police thrown in and out as required
Curates  for hire,on fire with zeal
Confessionals closed but well polished to appear to be in use
Slate floor and inner walls.
Large fence  with barbed wire entrances.
Large plastic  needle with artificial eyes on show.

How to learn English the long way

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Starters:

Jellied heels with frayed bunions
Muck hurtled suit.
Satirical  brains on boast.
Melania and grate solid
Fried brides on crumpets

 

Mains
Trumpled stake with French eyes and  invalid.
Lamb on the fence with sacred rice
Walls of macaroni cheese   free with cold ovaries
Conger reels on a bed of lies  and fried pirhanas.
Roast dicks and  grated parrots.
Toast reef and Yorks old Rifkind

Desserts

Korean I Scream with nuclear frissons
Custard warts and bedlam
Apple Trumplings with whites’ sauce.
Disputin’ cold farts.
Settlers nets on Yahoo with cream gaps.
Mexican planks  with caramel blusters.

Seems like the ice is inside me

Air,bitter they call it,whispers to the sweet planes of my face,
Shrieks shrill to my cavities,ears,mouth and nose;penetrates all that’s open;
Probing like a surgeon’s knife,to see what healing damage it might do.
A frozen finger touches my heart;
Seems like the ice is inside me sending urgent warnings.

On that high inner mountain,you’ll feel nothing at all…
You’ll be the snowman, a bloody icicle;
An Old Testament of Endurance;
A legend like the pale polar bears, snuffling uneasily around the summit
Touching a woman’s heart is the quickest way to gain her attention
I’m looking at you;you’re in pieces.You’re a puzzle,a jigsaw with two double dynamos;
A broken racing bicycle crossed with two ice skates.
Ten motorboats crashed into a yacht and abandoned on a Swiss lake in winter.
Can I leave you scattered like this?
You’re a man in a penguin suit;
Diplomatic, attached with the coldest reserves.
You’re a spy from the court of the Vatican City
A screaming Pope;
An unbaptized demon.
A lost angel with no hands;
A half hung side of meat;
An unbroken rampant horse deluded by winds east.
We were split,one from another;
Split in ourselves too–thoughts and emotions
Are raw like meat,weeping as they are pulled apart into islands.
I see there’s a cold window between us.
I rub it with my damp coat sleeve,like children do,licking on it;
And see your eyes gleam in hope like greenish diamonds.
Yet I can’t touch you, until we learn how to melt glass.
Are you trying too as you smile weakly,
desperately holding onto this impossible slippery glass?
We’ll try  to reach you at the bottom of whatever frozen ocean you sigh in. to
Here you are,a flat and two-dimensional Prospero.
You rise like a non-U-boat already firing at the upper orders.
Here you are walking through what seemed like ruins
And you are not just alive, but burning.

 Our life is like a shell upon the shore

tossed up by squally,salty,shivering sea
.To shrink inside is safe,yet we want more,
To make,to love,to see,at last to be.
A shell, though tough, is made to open out;
To give the living core its chance to grow
.Towards the new we each must shed our doubt.
Every myth and story say it’s so..
Impregnable,that home had seemed to be
To the tiny creature growing in its heart#.
Yet thrown by winds across the rolling sea
The slender cage must open and let part.
Protection can be prison to the soul.
So we  crack our    out grown shells, desiring all

Day shall come again

When red sun  drops and  cooling night  rolls in
Darkness masks both danger and  vision
Ancient minds fear    day won’t come again
Courage for the  delicate   seems thin
We  wrestle  with  our indecision
When  sun  drops and the night  rolls in
But now , new stricken by   a sense of sin
Who shall aid  the soul’s   derision?
Our  ancient minds fear   day won’t come again
When  we sleep, we’re entertained within
Deft dreams squander all   illusion
When  sun  drops and  black night  rolls in.
In reverie we’re loved  and  so  open
Then  fancy turns to full communion
While ancient minds fear  day won’t come again
And so  it was that our own life began
When sperm leaped up in  proud confusion.
When  deep sun  dropped , creative night rolled in
When  ancient  hearts cried  “Day  shall come again”

Eternal Pest

I thought our love was real , no more, I trust
Your persona was  of cleverness and  of lust
My judgment was  disabled by  my guts
I did not perceive as clearly as  I must
I thought  this love was real ,I gave my trust
You were biting and evasive  when I asked
You took your   blade and cut   us  both apart
I thought our love was real ,why did  I trust?
You acted  out fake wisdom and  fake heart
I  never  would have known that at the start
The meaning was of power stoked up with lust
In your heart you never took a guest.
I wish you peace,  be off Eternal pest

Donald Winnicott and Harold Pinter

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“In a remembrance of the writer Harold Pinter that appeared in the Los Angeles Times (and posted on Slow Painting), Charles McNulty included a memorable quote by D. W. Winnicott:

But for all his vehemence and posturing, Pinter was too gifted with words
and too astute a critic to be dismissed as an ideological crank.
He was also too deft a psychologist,
understanding what the British psychoanalyst D.W. Winnicott meant
when he wrote that
“being weak is as aggressive as the attack of the strong on the weak”
and that the repressive denial
of personal aggressiveness is perhaps even more dangerous
than ranting and raving.
(All that stiff-upper-lip business can be murderous.)”

I just came across that quote by accident
and thought it was worth posting here

Our language and our reality

http://www.mortylefkoe.com/how-our-language-determines-our-reality/whiteisland3

“As Edward Sapir, a noted anthropologist, has said:

Human beings do not live in the objective world alone, nor alone in the world of social activity as ordinarily understood, but are very much at the mercy of a particular language which has become the medium of expression for their society. The fact of the matter is that their “real world” is to a large extent unconsciously built up in the language habits of the group. . . . We see and hear and otherwise experience very largely as we do because the language habits of our community predispose certain choices of interpretation.

Language is far more than a tool for communication. The word “language” comes from logos, which means category or concept. With language we categorize, distinguish, and create the universe. Ultimately, we perceive the world according to our language. For example, when we think in English, we perceive a world made up primarily of objects: people, trees, and houses. These objects do things or have things done to them using verbs. We literally see everything in the world in this fashion. We don’t perceive “things out there” because there really are things out there. That just happens to be our worldview, because in our language there is a subject, which acts upon an object, which exists independently of the subject. In the English language, independent entities (subjects and objects) are primary, rather than processes or relationships. That’s not true in every language.

As Ralph Strauch points out in his book The Reality Illusion:

Some languages are structured around quite different basic word- categories and relationships. They project very different pictures of the basic nature of reality as a result. The language of the Nootka Indians in the Pacific Northwest, for example, has only one principle word-category; it denotes happenings or events. A verbal form like “eventing” might better describe this word-category, except that such a form doesn’t sound right in English, with its emphasis on noun forms. We might think of Nootka as composed entirely of verbs, except that they take no subjects or objects as English verbs do. The Nootka, then, perceive the world as a stream of transient events, rather than as the collection of more or less permanent objects which we see. Even something which we see clearly as a physical object, like a house, the Nootka perceive of as a long-lived temporal event. The literal English translation of the Nootka concept might be something like “housing occurs;” or “it houses.

In a discussion of this point, Nobel Prize winning physicist Werner Heisenberg said:

What we are observing is not nature itself, but nature exposed to our method of questioning. And how do we question? All of our methods of interrogating nature depend on language—and it is the very nature of language to refer to things. We therefore think in terms of things. How can we possibly think of nonthings, nothings, nothing? In our very forms of thought we instinctively divide the world into subjects and objects, thinkers and things, mind and matter. This division seems so natural that it has been presumed a basic maxim of objective science.

A dramatic (and sobering!) example of how language determines the distinctions we make can be found in the specific technical language that is used to describe nuclear weapons and arms control. Carol Cohn, a senior research fellow at the Center for Psychological Studies in the Nuclear Age, Cambridge, Massachusetts, spent a year as a visiting scholar at a defense studies center. She published some of her experiences in the Summer 1987 issue of SIGNS: The Journal of Women in Culture and Society, ©1987 by The University of Chicago Press, in an article titled “Nuclear Language and How We Learned to Pat the Bomb.”  She wrote:

The better I became at this discourse [of arms control], the more difficult it became to express my own ideas and values. While the language included things I had never been able to speak about before, it radically excluded others. To pick a bald example, the word “peace” is not a part of this discourse. As close as one can come to it is “strategic stability’ a term that refers to a balance of numbers and types of weapons systems—not the political, social, economic, and psychological conditions that “peace” implies.

If I was unable to speak my concerns in this language, more disturbing still was that I also began to find it harder to keep them in my own head. No matter how firm my own commitment to staying aware of the bloody reality behind the words, over and over I found that I could not keep human lives as my reference point….

I was so involved in the military justifications for not using nuclear weapons—as though the moral ones were not enough. What I was actually talking about—the mass incineration of a nuclear attack—was no longer in my head.”

Language wrote both Dante and Mein Kampf

Winter sunshine shows the branches bare

Reveals each shape both elegant and spare

The  little birds fly in and out at will

The low sun’s bright, the wind is light as well

 

  What kind of world has human language made?

   Evolution does not always pay

For language can  tell love but also hate

And brings  to some misfortune and black fate

 

Words can hurt much deeper than a knife

 We may be  traumatised  by our  own life

 the bitch the witch , the charlatan, the  Jew

These categories old, are ever new

 

Language wrote  both Dante and Mein Kampf,

Ecstasy or  Concentration Camp